My old colleague Brian
was afflicted with an extremely windy digestive system. One Saturday morning as he lay in bed, he felt his guts churn in that way that indicates a particularly satisfying fart is brewing, especially when one has eaten a massive curry the night before. And so it was, giggling to himself as he did, that he drew his knees up to his chest and prepared to let rip.

And let rip he did, followed immediately by an arcing stream of hot molten shit which proceeded to splatter the marital bed, covering the duvet, the bottom sheet, and pretty much liquidising his boxers in the process. Thankfully, his missus was in the bathroom at the time, and so well placed to bring him the bog roll. I say "bring", what she actually did was throw the packet at his head, call him a disgusting, filthy animal,and storm off to her parents for a bit until she felt it was safe to come home.

Brian told us about this the next day when we were doing an overtime shift.

I haven't seen Brian for a while, but he did turn up recently in an episode of Robson Green's Tales of Northumberland, building a fishing coble in Amble. He looked happy.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 18 Jun 2015, 20:28, 2 replies)